Beyond The White Kings Cross
by Sweet Darkling
Summary: When Severus Snape died, he didn't expect to wake up on the Kings Cross platform that used to take him to Hogwarts. To make a miserable day worse, it's all white. And he's not even sure if it's heaven or hell and how does he still have a thudding heart?


**Disclaimer****:** Harry Potter stuff? Nope. Not owned by me.

**Author's Note****:** So this is an idea I've had for ages. I hated the White Kings Cross chapter in the last book but I also thought it could be...amusing. I've also had an idea about what the afterlife might be like and what it could entail and what it could mean for Snape (with his dry thoughts). And this is the result. I have to also say that I was mildly influenced by Supernatural (TV Show – brilliant. Give it a go!) and its interpretation of heaven, though not so much their afterlife.

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**Beyond the White Kings Cross**

**Chapter I**

As Severus' vision slowly cleared, the black began to fade into white and he wondered if the tripe written by all those mediocre authors really had gotten it right. Was heaven _really _white? The only thing missing was the whole 'walking into the light' crap and the 'family welcoming you' bit. Well, his family's welcomes had always been...interesting. And not conventional in the least. Some could've even called it negligent but that was just being pedantic.

Once his vision began to focus, the fuzzy generalised whiteness turning into shapes and lines and things, bemused wonder was replaced by irritation and nausea. Who knew you could feel sick in heaven? Come to think of it, he wouldn't be surprised if this was hell because his surroundings were clearly the Kings Cross station where the Hogwarts train used to arrive, but what in the world was _he_ doing here? It didn't tally with any accounts of heaven or hell that he'd ever come across. And why was it white, unrelieved by any colour? Was the Creator, God, Force, whatever, that lazy? Or was he just colour blind? He snorted at the idea, somehow amused by the notion of an all-powerful, almighty, omnipresent god being blind. That was definitely a contradictory idea and if he wasn't in hell already, he was fairly certain that that thought alone earned him a place there.

Severus tested his various limbs, tensing his muscles to see whether they worked, a little surprised that they did. Once sure that they were functioning fine, he began to stand up, slowly and tentatively. As far as he could tell, there didn't seem to be anyone here aside from him, but it was always a good idea to be prepared for any threats. _Constant vigilance_, Severus thought drily. At least his sarcasm hadn't deserted him in his time of need. He moved a step; and then another, edging towards the end of the platform, beyond which the tracks lay. He wasn't really sure what to expect – he had never expected a white Kings Cross in his entire life, yet here he was. So what other surprises were there for him to discover?

He leaned over the edge of the platform, looked down and saw tracks, just normal rail tracks and he felt disappointment wash over him, even as he realised that he had no idea what he'd really expected. With disgust, he looked around again. Some crap kind of hell this was. The disgust was replaced by a feeling remarkably and painfully close to pain. Was this what he deserved for all that he did wrong? He'd thought it was all finally over and he had been so relieved! So relieved and yet, here he was, in bloody Kings Cross again and not even a colourful one!

The place was starting to look misty, slowly obscuring his sight. He turned quickly to the left. He was sure he had seen a movement there somewhere, but there was nothing there, the mist hiding little. His eyes narrowed as he tried to see...something...something that maybe he imagined he saw through all the white...but no, there really was nothing. He sighed and looked all around, and he found himself hating the white colour; such a dull, monotonous colour really. He pursed his lips together and forced a whistle through them but stopped immediately. The noise sounded unpleasant and jarring in the empty and thundering silence of the place. It felt like he was disturbing the peace...

And then he turned around again, the niggling idea that someone was staring at him returning with full force. Guess all those years playing undercover spy had made him paranoid. Worse than Moody, which was a pretty awful comparison, considering what the Barty Crouch Jr brat had done to him. So maybe there was someone (or something) staring at him here? Maybe he should go over there and find out what (or who) it was? And maybe he should get the hell out of here – bad pun intended – because if this was hell, and the white colour giving him a headache was increasingly suggesting that this was, then it couldn't be anything nice staring at him, hidden by the mist. It was becoming slowly more opaque, he realised, his heart beginning to thunder inside his chest. And wasn't that a new revelation too? He had a thudding heart when he was dead. It was ironic and sort of funny but nowhere near enough to disguise the fear and dread that he was feeling.

Either way, his feet were taking him away from where something was staring at him, if his stupid tingling feeling was anything to go by. And now he was hearing things too, he thought with irritation. Was he now going insane? Was that even possible, if you were dead? Then again, thudding hearts weren't generally considered the norm for dead bodies either. Nothing here was really the norm.

His feet tripped over something (_someone?_) and he now found that dead people could feel pain, the physical kind. And he uttered a nice loud curse because he was damned anyway, so what the hell, right? Picking himself up, he looked around, the mist now clouding everything that was more than a meter away. He could still hear something but it was indescribable, nothing he could consciously recognise but it still felt familiar. And he could still feel eyes on him.

There was nothing he could do, he decided, so he sat cross-legged, wincing slightly at the bruise on his right knee. Dead people getting bruises...with no blood running in their veins. He was beginning to think God or Devil or whatever had a sense of humour. And it was a tiny bit like his. No wonder his students had hated him so much! He wondered if everyone discovered empathy when they died or if this was something special or unique about him? He suspected the latter. He was almost certain that some of the other teachers at Hogwarts had had bucket-loads of empathy during their life, just never directed towards the Slytherins. His lips formed a sneer at the thought. Dead and he was still bitter (and worried) about his House.

He blinked – once, twice, again and a last time – before he was sure that the mist was indeed clearing up. He wished he had a wand with him, something to protect himself with but he'd had the worst of luck in life. No reason that would change in his afterlife.

And then his mouth fell open, as the mist finally cleared fully, revealing a train identical to the one that used to take everyone to Hogwarts. Except that it was all white. Figures, he thought, with a snort.

He took one final look around the station, staring carefully at every visible nook and cranny and corner and finding nothing and nobody there. Then, shrugging carelessly, he stood up, his right knee protesting. He had nothing to gain by staying on the platform. There could be something, anything, on the train. With this thought in mind, squaring his shoulders and wishing dearly that he had a wand, Severus walked into the train.


End file.
